


stay with me

by jbbames (artifice)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, M/M, Prompt Fill, Time Skips, Vignettes, slices of life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 19:09:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19157173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artifice/pseuds/jbbames
Summary: There’s a breath he’s holding onto that he can’t quite let go.





	stay with me

**Author's Note:**

> dialogue prompt #18: "just stay with me"
> 
>  
> 
> a/n [06/02/2019]: I've had awful writer's block for the past week, so this has kind of been my warm-up piece between larger projects! Apologies in advance for the sloppiness.
> 
> [06/09/2019]: thought i'd post and let y'all know i'm still alive and kicking lol

_1945_

  
  
There’s a breath he’s holding onto that he can’t quite let go.  
  
  
  
It’s as though his old asthma has decided to take this sip of air prisoner—his last breath before crashing into the ice, stuck in the crevices of his lungs.  
  
  
  
“I’d hate to step on your feet,” he says evenly, watching calmly as a blinding white fills his vision. The compass clatters off the dash and out of sight, its sound masked by the deafening roar of metal upon ice.   
  
  
  
It’s cold ( _bundle up, Stevie, can’t have you getting sick_ ) for a few fleeting moments. Or maybe it’s burning. Either way, he’s quickly becoming numb, and he can’t move can’t breathe can’t because it’s stuck  _it’s stuck, Bucky, Bucky, I’ll see you soon—_  
  
  
  
Time slips through his fingertips.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
_2011_  
  
  
  
When he comes to, his gut drops uncomfortably. Something isn’t right. He wiggles his fingers. Toes. Everything is in order ( _always cleaning up after your messes, huh, pal?_ ), at least physically. The woman who enters the room is suspicious. The Dodgers game is suspicious too—they can’t be doing a replay of it, the commentary is the same, his memory is as good as ever— he was _there_. With the tickets he and Bucky had slaved over.  
  
  
  
“Where am I,” he breathes. “Where am I, really?”  
  
  
  
When the woman doesn’t respond, he makes a break for it. He runs and runs and runs, cold air whipping at his face, his surroundings a blur of sharp corners and lights and suddenly—  
  
  
  
The world is alive with colour. There’s a dull pounding in his ears and adrenaline screaming at him to move, to keep going because—  _this ain’t Kansas anymore, Toto_ — the whole world has become so foreign, and he can’t catch his breath.  
  
  
  
He has nothing in this place; not even Bucky.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
_1935_  
  
  
  
“Good God, Stevie, you gotta wake up,”  
  
  
  
Bucky’s voice breaks with a restrained sob in his ear, and Steve tries the Herculean task of opening his eyes. They won’t budge. His mouth won’t open—he can’t reassure Bucky that he’s okay, that he’s just lingering on the edge of consciousness, that there’s a gaping maw of black threatening to swallow him whole, but he never liked bullies— didn’t matter where they were from. If only to spite the emptiness he teeters towards, he’d remain awake, alive.  
  
  
  
And yet, the darkness is so tempting. It’d be so easy to let go, to give himself over and slip into blissful nothing. He’s in pain now—his lungs can’t draw in enough air, and he feels cold all over, and what he  _wouldn’t_  do for a bit of warmth.  
  
  
  
“Just—just stay with me,” Bucky pleads, and Steve can feel the tears now, where they drip drip drip ( _ya never manage to stay dry, sweetheart_ ) onto his cheek and tickle as they slide down his face. “Please don’t leave me alone, I’m not,” a choked hitch in his breath. “I’m,”   
  
  
  
In his mind’s eye, Steve lifts a hand to cup Bucky’s jaw. In his mind’s eye, he runs the pad of his thumb over Bucky’s bottom lip, and Bucky smiles fondly and lets him trace the curve of his mouth, and they bask in that quiet moment together.  
  
  
  
As it happens, he only manages to twitch his right hand where it lays across his chest in response. Bucky’s sigh of relief is a gust of warmth over his eyelids.  
  
  
  
“It’s you and me until the end of the line, pal. You can’t go dying on me yet.”  
  
  
  
_Wouldn’t dream of it_ , he wants to say. There’s a firm press of lips to the corner of his right eye, then fingers intertwining with his own, then the soft brush of hair against his chin as Bucky tucks himself closer.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
_2014_  
  
  
  
Steve met Sam today.  
  
  
  
As far as first meetings go, theirs isn’t half bad. He quite likes Sam, actually. It’s a pity their conversation gets cut short, but duty calls. Natasha smirks at him ( _you’re an open book, as always_ ) and pulls into traffic.  
  
  
  
Sam reminds him of Bucky, just a little. Or maybe of himself. Or maybe Steve can't differentiate between the two, which is jarring, because ( _it's you and me, pal_ ) he's put so much of himself into his mental image of Bucky, or maybe Bucky took a part of Steve with him on the way down, or maybe it's something inexorable that came par for the course when he decided to befriend Bucky. But that’s not fair to Sam, to have to fill the Bucky-shaped-or-Something hole in his soul, so Steve dismisses the longing for something familiar and focuses on the present.  
  
  
  
Until the present becomes the past, and it’s 1924 again, suddenly, and Steve’s looking at Bucky for the first time all over again.   
  
  
  
“Bucky?”  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
_1924_  
  
  
  
“That’s my name,” the brunet— _Bucky_ , what a weirdo— winks and stretches out a hand to help Steve up. “And who are you, Mr. I-had-‘em-on-the-ropes?”  
  
  
  
Steve sucks in a breath, deep as it can go, and takes the offered hand. “Steve Rogers.”  
  
  
  
“Awful boring,” Bucky drawls. It sounds practiced, almost, like he’s imitating the intonations of someone much older, but it suits him.  
  
  
  
“Awful weird,” Steve retorts.   
  
  
  
There’s a moment of panic where he thinks the other kid might be the one beating him up this time ‘round, but then Bucky lets out a disbelieving laugh, and the tension dissipates. “You got an attitude, punk.”  
  
  
  
Snorting, Steve starts his walk of shame back home. “Don’t be a jerk,” he calls out behind him.  
  
  
  
Another guffaw of delight reaches his ears, and he feels the unfamiliar weight of an arm slung over his shoulders.   
  
  
  
“Let’s be friends, Stevie.”  
  
  
  
“Sure, Bucky.”  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
_2014_  
  
  
  
“Who the hell is Bucky?”  
  
  
  
Steve's world promptly fractures at the seams. He lets Bucky ( _that’s my name_ ) beat him to near-pulp. He watches him go. He tries to calm down ( _please, you gotta breathe_ ), but Natasha’s dragging him away, and Sam’s telling him to get a grip on himself, and—  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
_1944_  
  
  
  
“They fucked something up in me,” Bucky admits quietly in the privacy of their tent. “I don’t,” he draws in a shaky breath. “Can’t.”  
  
  
  
Steve regards him warily. Bucky’s hair, usually well-kept, is mussed and visibly tangled in odd places. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, but the stubble does nothing to hide his gaunt features, and his eyes have a dull, tired glint to them that the dim lamplight only accentuates.  
  
  
  
Before Steve can open his mouth, Bucky turns away, unfurling his sleeping bag.   
  
  
  
“Forget I said anything,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”  
  
  
  
Steve’s arms ache with how much he wants to draw Bucky into them, to hold him close like they’re sixteen again and  _it’s okay, doll, I’ll keep you safe_.  
  
  
  
Instead, he awkwardly pats the floor of the tent, the empty space between them, and clears his throat. “You know you can always, ah. Talk to me. Anytime.”  
  
  
  
Bucky lets out a fond snort and strips off his socks. “Yeah, Stevie.”  
  
  
  
Later, when the campsite is dark and silent (save for the  _tap tap tap_  of the rain), Steve feels something gently nudge at his shin, then the weight of another body curling against him through wool and fabric.  
  
  
  
“Thank you,” Bucky whispers, and his breath tickles the skin of Steve’s neck.

**Author's Note:**

> yell at/with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/artificiaIis)


End file.
